It was beautiful tonight,
My friends weren't here and that's something
I can forgive myself for.
What else? I speak another tongue now
Again
Like before,
Sometimes the only thing that is unearthed
Is a fistful of smoke
Passed around through hollow faces
The only thing shared
Like a compromise.
I don't know how old I am
How serious or juvenile
The moon looks the same to me,
Maybe glossier on some days than the rest.
I love that I don't have to explain myself
To you
Or to the ones I wrote to
When I was young and stupid and bored
I love that I get little time to pour over my lack
Sprinting and scurrying about
Like the overchild that I am.